


Little Lights (Go Out)

by goodnyte



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Shadowplay-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnyte/pseuds/goodnyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Impactor hires someone to help an unamused Megatron blow off some steam and get his temper in check. Instead of a client, Drift finds a teacher--though he offers a lesson he's not yet ready to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Lights (Go Out)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prowlish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/gifts).



Megatron felt bad; he really did. It always seemed like Impactor was the one who ended up paying for the rare instances in which his temper flared, if only because it did so infrequently. Impactor had a reputation for being easy to rile up; he usually ended up fixing whatever problem Megatron had made by getting too angry too quick with the wrong person.

This time, it had resulted in Impactor’s drill arm being nearly torn off by their quartermaster in the ensuing scuffle; he would have to go without it until the next morning while the repair bots fixed it up. The only reason it was getting any attention at all was because Impactor was useless in the mines without it, a fact that only served to sour Megatron’s mood and guilt further.

“You need to learn _when_ to shut up,” Impactor growled as they walked, looking over to glare at Megatron from under the brim of his helmet. Megatron, flanking his vulnerable side, clenched his fists and nodded. “No, now is not the time to shut up. I know Payload has an aft in place of his brain module but why did you have to _say so_ to his face?” he groused, optics narrowing.

Megatron didn’t know why he’d said what he had; it was hard enough watching their supervisors in the mines abuse their authority but to see mechs that were supposed to be just like them doing it set something off in him – the manual classes had to work together, not willingly subjugate one another. “It’s complicated,” he grumbled in reply, not wanting to explain all of that, not when Impactor was already pissed and likely not in the mood for talk of his revolution-that-would-never-be.

A sudden grip on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts; he grunted as he was shoved up against the wall, Impactor effectively pinning him down with just the one arm and the surprise movement.

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” the other miner shouted, tightening his grip against Megatron’s shoulder pauldron painfully; he didn’t wince, didn’t move. Impactor would be easy enough to shove off but he couldn’t do it – this was his fault; Impactor had his right to this.

“Whatever convoluted and complicated and too damn smart idea you’ve got in that head of yours, it lost us housing for the night and here we are,” he said, only letting up to gesture at the door he had Megatron pinned against. “Your quarters for the evening.”

Megatron blinked, growing alarmed at the lack of ‘our’ in that statement. “Mine? Where will you stay?”

Impactor pointed out the door behind him with a jab of his thumb. “’Cross the hall. Two for one deal, you see. I used to frequent this joint before—well,” he said, looking Megatron up and down with a telling glance. If he cared for propriety, he likely would have blushed, Megatron thought dryly. “The keep’s a decent mech. Didn’t put us back much but it put us back enough,” he said, that accusing glare returning for a moment. “We’ve got to find a way for you to get that—“ he started to say, gesturing to Megatron’s head with his one hand “—sorted out so you quit picking fights.”

“And how do you propose we fix this?” Megatron asked, tapping at his helm with a sneer.

Impactor grinned in a way that made Megatron suddenly uneasy. “I had some ideas. This place is pretty well known for being particularly … accepting of certain types of business, and seeing that I won’t be able to help you blow off steam tonight,” he said, holding his one hand aloft as if to display its total uselessness. “Unless you have a thing for one-armed mechs.”

Blowing off steam. Megatron’s spark clenched in on itself painfully, a scowl forming on his lips. “Oh, is that it? You think a whore is going to help me out?”

“Anything is worth a try. We have to get that anger under control or someday you’re going to say something stupid enough to get yourself killed,” he said, jabbing his index digit against Megatron’s chest plating accusingly.

Megatron sighed at that, unable to stay angry when it was clear Impactor meant well – his less than desirable methods notwithstanding. “Look, I appreciate the thought but it would probably be for the best if we didn’t—“

“Oh no, too late buddy,” Impactor said, a grin spreading wide across his face. “I knew you wouldn’t want to try it out so I made sure everything was arranged before we even got this far,” he said with a laugh, undoubtedly proud that he’d managed to outthink Megatron.

“So, that means—”

“Yup, he’s already in there,” Impactor said to Megatron’s horror, smirking. “Better not keep him waiting but don’t worry about hurrying him along, I bought him for the night,” he said with a parting mock salute with his remaining hand, pointedly glaring Megatron’s way. “Do what you gotta do to get your head straight,” he said, keying himself into his own room and closing the door behind him, leaving Megatron alone in the hallway.

Megatron stared at the now undoubtedly locked door, momentarily tempted to break it down and demand Impactor to dismiss whoever he’d paid for the night. But destroying the door would only mean they’d owe the motel even more money they didn’t have—he couldn’t do that.

And it wasn’t like Impactor was doing this to be cruel; he honestly thought he was helping, cruel methods as they were. It was Megatron’s fault they were in this situation, not Impactor’s; he couldn’t blame him for trying to help in the few ways he knew how. Impactor deserved a good night’s sleep, deserved to have energon this month after they paid off their debts.

He could tolerate an awkward night, if that’s what it took. He steeled himself with a deep breath, feeling silly – it was just a prostitute. Why was he so nervous? He keyed himself into the berthroom and stepped inside, not sure what to expect.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” a voice groused from inside, impatient and grating.

Megatron’s optics snapped to the source of the sound, narrowing as he caught sight of the mech Impactor had hired for him. He was propped up against the wall adjacent to the berth, hips angled out suggestively--his body was all curves and yet had a sharpness to him, like a blade that had become dull with too much use. His plating was similarly dim; his painting was white but it was mired in grime, the soot of the slums still evident beneath a cheap veneer of polish.

“Like what you see then?” the mech said with a thick accent—Praxian? Why would he fake something like that?

Megatron frowned, noting how none of the mischievousness reached the light of his optics -- they were gold and dim, their focus fuzzed away with obvious signs of drug use. His fingers tapped a fidgeting rhythm against his arm, barely-there tremors rattling the plating of his shoulders visibly every few seconds. It was obvious upon the second glance and Megatron felt his spark constrict at the sick thought.

The mech likely wanted to get this over with--he wanted to get paid, get his boosters, and blast his brains out as soon as this shift was done. Megatron suddenly felt the urge to drag this out rather than wishing it end quickly.

“Look, buddy,” the mech was saying, startling him from his thoughts -- how long had he been standing there in the door? Like an idiot. Like a cerebral idiot, too caught up in his head, that’s what Impactor said--but the mech’s hands were on his chest and that did plenty to catch his attention and drag his mind back from the spiral of thoughts it had found itself lost in--the barely-there beauty, how bad this all was-- “You can stare all night, if you really want. Your friend paid for the whole night,” the mech said, his hands digging at the seams in Megatron’s chest armor, soft touches that could have passed for eager if not for the clinical lack of an eager energy field to go along with them.

“Something tells me you want to do more than look,” the mech continued with a flirty glint in his dull optics, sidling himself up against Megatron’s frame and trying to get the miner’s hands to rest against his sides.

Megatron stared, optics wide, unable to process for just a moment--but then, he remembered himself, he knew he had to make this right. He pulled himself away from the mech and quickly sidestepped him, getting himself to the interior of the room and facing towards the door and now the back of a clearly confused mech. “I think looking will suit me just fine,” he said, trying to calm down the panicked whirr of his ventilation fans.

The mech had turned and was looking at him, surprise evident in his wide optics. But some realization Megatron wasn’t privy to dawned on his face, his expression twisting into a smirk once again. “A voyeur, hm? I suppose I can work with that.”

Megatron stared, optics going wide. “N-no, that’s not what I meant--” he started to object vehemently, shaking his helm. “Look,” he huffed, gritting at his dentae -- he needed to end the confusion now if he had any hope of recharging. “What is your name?” Megatron asked, pointedly keeping his hands balled into fists at his sides.

The mech was having none of his supposed coyness though, purring through his vents with a pout as he sauntered closer again, placing his hands against those fists and leaning his weight against Megatron’s hips. “Oh, come on,” he said, trying to force his arms apart, to open him up; Megatron didn’t budge though the mech didn’t show any signs of letting up the pressure. “My name can be whatever you want it to be, just for tonight,” he said with an unconvincing easy lilt to his voice that Megatron assumed others found to be attractive.

He clenched his jaw and moved his arms – the mech’s optics lit up, likely thinking he’d won, but Megatron quickly grasped at the more slender forearms, capturing both in his fists and holding the mech still. “No. Enough of that,” he said, his grip remaining firm even as the other mech glanced up at him, a barely-there panic evident in the dim blue of his optics. “What is your name?” he repeated.

The other mech was glaring at him with narrowed optics. “Fine,” he said, his voice still colored with the fake Praxian accent, though it wavered with some of the fear he wasn’t managing to hide very well. “It’s Drift,” he muttered, as though loathe to give the name up.

“Drift,” Megatron echoed, nodding after a moment. Whether or not the name was real didn’t matter; it suited the mech either way. “My name is Megatron, of Tarn” he said, releasing Drift’s arms and taking a step back, offering his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Drift, at the very least, seemed less concerned with keeping up the sexy and sultry act after being stopped in his tracks. He looked from Megatron to the extended hand, his expression morphing from confusion to distrust. “You’ve got to be joking,” he finally said, looking up at Megatron with a sneer curling at his lip.

“I am not,” Megatron said with a small smile. The fake accent had fallen away, leaving behind the crude-but-honest rough edges of the Tarnian dialect in its wake.

The smaller mech was looking at him as though he’d sprouted an extra head but, after a long moment, reached out to shake his hand—his hand was so small, Megatron noted. His own fist completely dwarfed Drift’s and it looked so odd; he’d never touched a mech so much smaller than himself, had never noticed just how big he was in comparison.

“Okay, Megatron of Tarn,” he said once they were done, pulling his hand away to rub at his wrist joints, not once letting his gaze fall from the larger mech. When Megatron didn’t make a move, he reached out with his newly freed hand and pressed it against the larger mech’s chest, splaying his fingers out across the armor—a clear suggestion that he ought to back up against the berth and lie down. “Now that those formalities are taken care of, can we go ahead and—”

“And nothing,” Megatron interrupted, gently pushing Drift’s hand down and off his chest again, backing up just enough to put a measured distance between them. “Look, I’m not going to interface with you,” he said, his words clearly enunciated because he could already see the smaller mech’s optics going wide—ah yes, he was very expressive. The disbelief was obvious. “It’s a long story and I’m sorry you ended up involved—”

“What the _hell_ is your problem?” Drift snarled before he could finish, the shock having morphed into an exasperated incredulity, the frustrated confusion lending a crazed look to those dim gold optics. He crowded into Megatron’s space, somehow managing to look much bigger than he was as he puffed up angrily. “You know how much this screws me? Your friend there picked me up at peak time! You’ve wasted my best hours—”

“No, no, don’t get me wrong” Megatron said, holding his hands up defensively as Drift zeroed the distance between them with that violent glint in his optics. “Don’t worry about the money. You’ll get paid just the same.”

Drift stopped short in his ranting, rearing back. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re right, my friend wasted your time. The least I can do is to make sure you get paid for your trouble,” Megatron said, shrugging his shoulders with a sigh. “And, don’t feel obliged to say yes, but it’d be appreciated if you would consider spending the night anyway. That way I can tell him we interfaced so he’ll get off my case about it,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously—how did he get himself in these situations?

By nearly punching their quartermaster in the jaw, that’s how. Impactor was certainly teaching him a lesson, though not in the way he had intended.

Drift was unaware of all of that, of course; the smaller mech was watching him now with a smirk twitching at his lips. “Seriously? Are you busted in here or something?” he asked, tapping at Megatron’s chest again—Megatron recoiled away from the touch, backing up again and finding himself up against the berth at last. “You want to lie to your friend, just _tell_ him that we interfaced, even when you could just be, I don’t know,” he said, arching an optic ridge, “honest about it?”

It was Megatron’s turn to scowl; he reached up and gripped Drift’s forearm with strength just shy of causing dents and yanking him forward until he was nearly flush against his chest. “Why are you insisting?” he growled. “Do you really want to frag right now?”

The wide, startled look Drift gave him was all the answer he needed; he flinched away reflexively, his energy field withdrawing itself entirely in fear. Of course, Drift couldn’t say no, not once he’d been bought; he could only stare and silently beg Megatron to not do it, to not take the bait.

Megatron felt the nausea from earlier stirring in his tanks again.

He flung Drift’s arm away from him, huffing hot air through his vents. “Look, don’t feel like you have to stay. Impactor said he—“ he couldn’t say ‘bought’ even though that’s exactly what Imapctor had done. “He said you’d be here for the night. You don’t have to stay if you have somewhere else to be. And like I said before, you’ll get paid all the same,” he said, wiping his hands against themselves.

Drift had gone quiet though, all of his previous big-mouthed bravado having seemingly evaporated. It occurred to Megatron that maybe Drift truly didn’t have somewhere else to be – and even if he did, maybe he couldn’t get there this late at night alone.

“Hey,” he said. Drift looked up, his expression guarded and his energy field still wrapped tightly about himself. “Do you have somewhere to go? I can help you get home, if you need it,” he offered. “Mechs won’t pick a fight with me, if you’re worried about getting back safe.”

He’d look like any other miner with a whore, a common enough thing to see on the streets. He squashed down the unease in his tanks, trying to stop himself from feeling sick to his core.

Drift remained quiet at first, then hummed. “No, I—” he started, then frowned and shook his helm. “No, I don’t have anywhere to go,” he said quietly, ducking his helm. He didn’t explain further, though a heavy weight had apparently taken up residence against the smaller mech’s shoulders, making him look small and doubled over, his posture sagging.

“You can stay here for tonight, really,” Megatron offered, gesturing to the berth. “It actually helps me out, like I said,” he added with a shrug. “If you don’t mind me telling my friend that we interfaced. It might get him off my back for a bit.”

Drift watched him warily, squinting his optics in skepticism. Finally, he shrugged, nodding. “Your friend is weird. If he wants to pay for me to get a good night’s rest, then so be it,” he said as he turned to point a thumb at the bed.

Megatron shrugged, glad that the mech didn’t seem to want to make more of an issue of it. “No, he’s not the weird one,” he said with a sigh, gesturing to the berth. “But please, feel free. Someone ought to get a decent night’s sleep out of this mess.”

Drift stared at him, narrowing his optics into a scrutinizing squint. “Can’t sleep much with a mech I don’t trust around,” he said, echoing Megatron’s shrug. “But it’s more comfortable than what I’ve usually got.” And with that he walked over to the berth, lying down with a parting distrustful glance over his shoulder. He settled against it, relaxing on its surface like a sigh letting loose, despite what he’d said.

Megatron watched him for a moment, until the overwhelming uneasy feeling felt like it was going to corrode him from the inside out. He had to capitalize on that sensation, on the profound sense of _wrongness_ that he was experiencing – he didn’t understand it. And when he didn’t understand, he wrote.

He sat himself up against the headboard of the berth, pulling himself over onto the far opposite side of where Drift was sleeping. He pulled the datapad he had in progress out from subspace, taking a moment to look at his notes from his last writing session – they seemed unimportant now in the face of this new sensation he felt the gnawing need to put words around. He tapped the stylus against the datapad’s surface, thinking for a moment before beginning to write:

_If you think you are already free, you cannot free yourself. It is impossible to emancipate yourself from chains that you cannot see or do not acknowledge. There is no mech less free than the mech who thinks himself free when he is, in fact, not._

_While living our daily lives, we never stop to ask ourselves, ‘_ Are we truly free?, _’ because we are –most of us- not physically bound. We can move around; I can get up from where I am sitting, walk over to the door, open it, walk outside, and come back to where I had been sitting an hour later. Am I not free then to do what I like?_

_The answer is, of course, no: I am not free. I am chained and boxed in by barriers that I cannot see. But who erects these boundaries and tell us to stay within our invisible prions? That answer is, again of course, the Functionists who have determined the nature of our chains and Senate which holds their key and benefits from our being held down and shackled._

_But while the Functionists and the Senate are the ones who have locked us up, who has forced us to sit in our cells and say to ourselves_ , ‘Yes, I am free’?

_No one has done that to us. We have done that to ourselves and to each other. We fail to see our own chains and delight in clapping irons on others—and why? This, I have no answer for._

_You are never more a slave than when you willingly sit in your cell and say_ ‘I am free’ _; you are never more free than when you sit in your cell, look outside, and acknowledge,_ ‘I am not free’— _because it is then that you open your eyes and are aware of the bars locking you in. They are no longer invisible and you can not only clearly see how entrapped you are, but you can also begin to search for the weaknesses in your chains. You can start to break them apart, link by link._

He stopped there and tapped his stylus against the side of the datapad, squinting his optics at it and resisting the familiar urge to erase what he’d just written. The thoughts weren’t easy to put words around. They were complicated, intertwining with each other into a jumbled mess in his mind that he tried to distill into sentences and paragraphs in the hopes that someone else would read them and would, maybe, understand and agree.

The overall message was right but he felt like he wasn’t saying anything new; wasn’t the very need to write these things proof that the world was willfully ignorant of the powers that held them down? He was tempted to undo it all, worried that he’d thought himself into a hellish meta-spiral, his index digit tapping agitatedly against the top of his stylus.

“You writing a novel or something?”

Megatron startled, looking up from his newly-minted words to see that Drift had turned over on his other side to face him, his elbow propped against the berth with his helm resting in his hand. The dull gold of his optics shown with some interest, lingering on the datapad in Megatron’s hands-his expression was impassive otherwise.

“No, it’s not fiction,” Megatron said, tilting the datapad closer to his chest, feeling oddly possessive of his work. “I write what I’m thinking,” he explained, frowning at the smirk that had started pulling at the corner of Drift’s mouth. He certainly wouldn’t admit that his thoughts sometimes came out in verse.

“But you’re a miner,” Drift said, something smug in his voice; he sat up from his reclined position on the berth, crossing his legs under himself. “Who said you’re allowed to think? Or write? Do miners come with language upgrades?” he asked, an optic ridge quirking upwards.

Megatron grunted, gritting his dentae. “What does that matter? I’m a miner who writes,” he said. He tried to sound unbothered but he could hear the resentment in his own voice and hated it. “Certainly you’ve encountered stranger in the slums.”

Drift pulled a face and shrugged. “No, pretty sure you’re the weirdest I’ve seen.”

“What an honor,” Megatron muttered in reply, earning a chuckle from Drift; he looked up, surprised by the sound, but Drift had shut himself up, staring back at him wide-eyed -- even his smirk was gone, his expression falling away in fear. He’d made Drift laugh, he realized. Pretty, scowling Drift who so far hadn’t even managed to smile, never mind chuckle.

But Drift was staring at him now, clearly afraid of retribution of some sort for laughing. Megatron didn’t know what to do; he’d never seen someone look so fearful and for no real reason. He wouldn’t hurt a mech for laughing at a comment he made—a joke of sorts, no less. The dagger of pity that had dug itself into his spark twisted deeper, the pain beginning to boil into anger.

He looked down at the datapad he had pressed against his chest – possessively, as if the words were his. Really, they were Drift’s too. “Would you like to read some of what I wrote? It’s not that interesting but…” he said, trying to think of a way to clear the cloud of fear from Drift’s optics.

The offer helped the other mech loosen up some, his shoulders sagging, though a frown had reappeared on his face.

“I—” he started to say but stopped himself, biting at his lower lip. “I can’t,” he said with a huff,  shaking his helm.

“You can’t,” Megatron echoed, the realization stabbing a new dagger altogether into his spark. “You can’t read.” Drift nodded, looking down to where his hands were anxiously balled up in his lap. Megatron knew that many mechs couldn’t read or write but both activities were so integral to who he was that he was surprised when he met such a mech.

“Oh, tactless of me to ask then,” he tried to joke but Drift didn’t chuckle this time, his helm remaining ducked. _Think_ , Megatron thought to himself, knowing there had to be a way out of this—to share what he had to say with Drift, if the other mech wanted to listen.

“Would you like me to read some to you?” he offered.

Drift was watching him warily, his distrust nearly radiating off of him even as he nodded; his curiosity was more powerful than his fear, apparently.

Megatron smiled, appreciating that in a mech. He keyed a few pages back in his datapad, to an earlier page, and began to read:

“Be happy in your work, they say, for it enriches you. Be grateful for your alt mode, for it defines you. Be thankful for the system—it protects you. Be mindful of your betters—they think for you. I say: enough. Reject your work. Reject your alt mode. Resist the system. And your “betters”? You have none. We are all equal. And we all have the right to decide—”

“Are you insane?” a voice interrupted the paragraph, startling Megatron from his reading.

“Pardon?”

“They’ll kill you for writing that!” Drift said in a breathless hiss, scrambling back on the berth and staring at the datapad as though it were possessed. “They might kill me for even hearing it! I—”

“What did you think of it?” Megatron asked, trying to cut through the other mech’s panic long enough to get him to reply. “I’ve never—I can never tell if this might be something that only I am feeling,” he tried to explain, suddenly desperate for the kind of feedback Impactor, content as he was with how things were, could never give.

Drift stared at him, cycling through his ongoing panic attack with a final harsh sigh through his vents. “This whole thing is weird,” he said finally, his jaw setting stubbornly to stave of his breathless panting. “Is this some sort of sting? Are you trying to get me to admit to thinking like that?” he demanded, waving a hand at the datapad as if he could swat the words away.

Megatron shook his helm, keeping his optics locked with Drift’s. “No. Thinking like this—or thinking at all—isn’t something you should feel like you’re admitting to. It’s not a crime to have thoughts,” he said, his words pointed and insistent. “I wrote this because it’s what I think. It’s what I want,” he said, bringing a fist to his chest plating and resting it over where his spark would be demonstrably.

Drift snorted, optics narrowing into a wary glare. “Oh yeah? Well thinking like that _is_ a crime. I could report you right now for even possessing that datapad, never mind writing it. And they’d probably pay me pretty good for it too,” he said, tilting his helm. Megatron could see him doing the calculation in his head, assessing who would pay him more—Impactor or the authorities.

He had seen it though; he had seen the moment of realization in Drift’s optics, like the flipping of a switch. “You won’t, though,” Megatron said, slowly and deliberately. Without doubt. “Please,” he asked again, “What did you think of it?”

Another snort, but he could tell he had gotten Drift thinking which alone would have been worth this entire misadventure. The smaller mech settled back on the berth, pulling his legs up under himself and crossing them, resting his helm on one hand. “I didn’t understand all of it. But what I did get—” he started to say, but his optics darted around the room, as though still not sure if the room was bugged or not. Megatron waited; there was no chance of the Senate or anyone else wasting such expensive equipment on a motel room in the slums and he only had to wait for Drift’s paranoia to resolve itself.

“It sounded right,” he said all in a rush, as though exhaling a breath he’d been holding too long. He bit at his lower lip, hesitating; Megatron waited again, giving him the space to think it through and figure out what he wanted to say. “But I think—no, we all know the system is messed but there’s nothing we can do, you know?” he said, lifting his helm from his hand and crossing his arms against his chest. “Can’t blame a mech for just wanting to get by.”

Megatron nodded; that’s exactly what Impactor usually said, though he always said it much more dismissively. He felt like Drift was testing out having opinions of his own and thinking for himself; he had to try to push, rather than leave it at that like he usually did. “But if we all know it’s wrong, isn’t there something we can all do together to change it?” he asked, but he frowned he got a laugh in response. “What? You find that notion funny?”

Drift was giving him this look – it was an interesting expression, a mix of amusement and disbelief. He’d seen it a few times now; it gave him the impression that Drift had no idea what to think of him. It was a kinder reaction than many others he had dealt with, he thought with some surprise measure of affection.

“Yeah, the notion of any of us working together is pretty fragging hilarious,” Drift said with a short laugh. Megatron just stared, silently demanding clarification. “What? I’m not risking my life for anybody or anything,” he said, shrugging stiffly. “Are things great? No. But I’m alive and I’ve got my ways of coping. I’m not giving that up for someone else or for some … idea.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “So you’re alive. That’s enough for you?” he prodded; he knew he was pushing, but the hesitation he got out of Drift on even that simple a question was worth it. Drift was hearing him, slowly and not without some pushing but he was getting to someone—finally. “If it’s not enough, then what _would_ make being alive enough?” he asked. “What’s missing?”

“Seriously?” Drift snarled in immediate reply, taking no time at all to think this time. “What’s missing? How about enough energon to get by on? Energon that isn’t so contaminated it’s toxic to consume?” he said, his dim optics flaring with anger for the first time. “How about a place to recharge safely at night? How about not having to do _this_ ,” he said, gesturing to the berth obscenely, “every night, just to not starve?” He scowled, optics dimming to a dull yellow again. “See, that’s the problem with these _ideas_ of yours,” he said with a derisive snort. “They don’t keep anyone well-fueled or off the streets. They only get mechs who should have kept their mouths shut killed.”

“But that isn’t their purpose,” Megatron replied, placing his hands flat against the berth and leaning in closer to Drift, lowering his helm to catch and hold his optics. “Ideas won’t keep me alive but they fuel me all the same. I want to help build a world where you have those things, where you don’t have to do this,” he said, feeling the familiar fire flare within him, wishing he could make Drift feel it too. “But I can’t do it alone. And I can’t do it without ideas.”

Drift’s scowl had softened to a frown, an exhaustion visibly draining away at his anger. “You won’t be the first hothead they put down,” he said with a sigh, something like concern evident in the pinch of his optics. “Is this how you’re going to get your revolution done? By preaching it at whores in motel rooms?”

Megatron blinked and then laughed at that, amused by how well that described his approach. Oh, there was that look again; Drift thought he was crazy. “If that’s what it takes. I’ll tell it to anyone who listens.”

“Not sure how that will work out for you. Not much a whore can do to help,” Drift said with a short laugh of his own, though his was bitter, mirthless sound that made Megatron’s spark twinge with sympathy.

Megatron had to resist touching Drift; he had to resist the urge to reach out to him and take him by the hands as if it could undo the years of similar, more violent touches. But he so badly wanted to take hold of his hand, to tell him to come along with him, to join him.

“You are than just a whore,” he said, willing for Drift to see that. “You are more than what you do to earn your credits. You have thoughts and feelings and ideas that deserve to be heard. That’s the only difference between you and me. You’ve been told for so long to shut up, keep your head down, and just get through it, like life is just something to be endured. It’s not.”

Drift’s skeptical look had crumpled into a scowl, but Megatron pushed on—he knew Drift had to hear it. “Your life is yours to do with as you see fit. Your life has value outside of what others say you are worth,” he insisted, wishing he could reach for Drift’s arm, to physically reinforce what he was saying, but he had to let him keep at least that boundary, that small amount of space to himself. “I’ve seen it, in just this short time. I wish you could see it,” he said, ducking his helm—a little embarrassed. As though he’d revealed too much.

When he looked back up, Drift was really staring at him now. His ‘you’re crazy’ expression had softened to a more wide-eyed look—his face a blur of confused emotions, at once upset and intrigued. He opened his mouth once to say something but it abruptly closed again, dipping his helm to stare at his hands.

Megatron waited and watched, not sure if he should say more. He wanted to give Drift the space to think and reply, but he had never delivered his message to anyone this personally—it was always abstract theories, a disconnected ‘you’ that he was trying to convince.

But here was the ‘you’, right in front of him—desperate and hurting, devalued. The pity that had been digging into his spark like a knife gave a final twist, rending a wound that radiated anger. He was angry at the system that could tell any mech they were worth no more than what they could produce; he was angry at himself for not speaking out louder, for not doing more.

“Your friend sure paid me a lot to sit here and be told nice things,” Drift said finally, pulling Megatron from his thoughts. The other mech’s voice was so soft he almost thought he hadn’t heard him.

Megatron sighed, at first thinking that Drift was still stubbornly refusing to see but he blinked in surprise when the other mech looked back up at him. Drift’s optics had gone bright, losing their drug-tinged dullness and brimming over with light—he looked as though he was about to cry.

He’d never been told nice things, Megatron realized.

“Whatever he paid you,” he said, reaching over to place a gentle touch on Drift’s arm—the other mech flinched slightly but kept his optics locked on him, his eyes wide and alight with a vast array of emotions. “It’s not nearly what you are worth because no amount of credits could truly buy you. You’re not your body,” he said, lifting his hand and pointing to the other mech’s chest. “You’re in here, got it?”

Drift’s optics went so wide, Megatron could see the lights in his irises flickering as tears threatened to filter out. He looked down to where his spark was housed, his shoulders hunching forward as though he were in pain. Megatron started in alarm, almost leaning forward to touch him again to see what was wrong but Drift moved quickly.

The smaller mech dragged his knees up against his chest, burying his helm against his arms as he let out a single ragged sob. He sat still, trembling slightly, making no other sound for a long few moments. Megatron didn’t know what to think, but he didn’t regret saying what he did—Drift had to hear it, and his reaction made that all the more clear.

“If you start telling everyone that,” the other mech mumbled finally, barely audible around his own knees. “If you tell everyone that and make them all feel like this,” he said, looking up and clutching a hand against his chest plating. “You’d have an army in days,” Drift said, his optics still bright with barely-there tears but his jaw was set, a renewed stubbornness making his expression hard again.

But this stubbornness wasn’t self-defeating; this was the fire Megatron wanted to foster in others. A fire he hoped wouldn’t be too quickly doused by drugs and defeat.

He didn’t want to correct Drift; he didn’t want to tell him that he didn’t want an army. So instead, he nodded and said, “I hope you’ll join me then, when the time comes.” And he meant it. He wanted Drift to stay safe—to stay alive. He had to see a world where alt-modes and mode of creation didn’t dictate someone’s worth.

The waver in Drift’s defiant expression told him the other mech knew that’s what he meant, knew that it would be a struggle for him to get clean and to survive. “If I’m around,” he said, a barely-there tremble in his voice, a compromise if not a promise in his nod. “I’ll be there.”

.o.

Drift had wanted to hear more, a new kind of hunger evident in his optics as Megatron had turned to his earlier writings, his more polished works. The other mech didn’t make it long though, physically and emotionally exhausted as he was. Megatron had to ask him, gently and tactfully, to sleep on the other side of the berth; more for his conscience than anything. Drift had complied, a tired smirk on his lips—no doubt amused by having a client that wanted him a safe distance away in the berth, but not seeming to mind otherwise.

When he awoke from recharge, Megatron’s first thought was that he felt warm--the kind of warmth that reminded him of the few times he and Impactor had managed to sleep on the same berth all night. It was pleasant, an emotional warmth as much as it was physical, the feeling that something had gone right.

He opened his optics and blinked as he found himself not in their usual sleeping quarters, but in a motel--the motel, he remembered with a jolt to his systems, though he managed to keep his frame still. He craned his neck to look over his own shoulder, sighing deeply through his vents.

Drift was curled up against his back, his body a tight coil of warmth pressed against Megatron’s back plating. He was recharging deeply, his breath cycling slow and even; Megatron knew he couldn’t wake him, not when he likely needed the rest.

He sighed, his spark constricting painfully. Drift’s touch now was totally innocent, his want for warmth endearing rather than threatening. But Megatron knew he had to get up; he knew Impactor would be waiting. But watching Drift sleep now, his face free of the scowl and the fear, reminded him—Drift had promise, if someone would just give him a chance.

He grunted quietly as he got up, stretching as his mind churned out an idea—he set to seeing it done, carefully pulling himself away from Drift’s half-embrace, leaving him sleeping soundly despite the movement.

And he was done, almost too quickly. He tried to head for the door, to make a clean break, but he couldn’t help but look back--one last time. He wanted the image of Drift curled up, sleeping quietly and calmly to be the last image he saw of him, if they were to never meet again. But as he quietly turned his back and saw himself out, he willed it to not be so--willed Drift to come find him, someday.

He allowed himself a parting glance at the door; he reached out to change the glyph at the access point to ‘do not disturb’, smiling to himself. “Until the time comes, Drift,” he said, finally turning away and making his way down the hall.

.o.

Drift didn’t know how long he slept. He startled awake, as he usually did, quickly scanning the room around him for signs of danger--he found none. He was alone. He slumped back down against the berth, curling up against himself, around the datapad in his hand--wait, why did he have a datapad?

He sat up, looking at the datapad in his hand--he couldn’t read, why did he have this? He thought, racked his brain, and remembered--Megatron. Had Megatron forgotten it?

Megatron wasn’t there anymore.

He looked around and pouted—he wasn’t really surprised by that. It was normal for clients to leave in the middle of the night or, more frequently, they made him leave. But Megatron was far from being a normal client and he supposed, somewhere deep in the stupid part of his spark that still hoped for things, he had hoped Megatron would stay.

But for what? For him to say goodbye? He scoffed, frustrated with himself; what a stupid thought.

The datapad, though. He held it up and noticed that it had some sort of input—and something was plugged into it, something that didn’t quite fit. He placed the datapad between his knees and dug at the thing that was sticking out, eventually picking it out. It was a small data card; his curiosity nagging at him insistently, he opened his arm paneling and jammed the card into its corresponding input, glancing up at his heads-up display as the information on it streamed past.

It was an audio file; he clicked it: _For when you learn to read_ , it said.

Megatron said.

There was another audio file, tagged with, “For now”—he clicked it and blinked as a voice that wasn’t Megatron’s started to read—it was the datapad, talking. Reading to him:

_If you think you are already free, you cannot free yourself. It is impossible to emancipate yourself from chains that you cannot see or do not acknowledge._

Drift allowed himself a small smile; he liked the words better when Megatron had read them but for now, this would do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WELL this is finally out in the world. This was an idea that came up with [prowlish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyrie_fe/pseuds/prowlish) ages ago. We joked about wishing "Drift being told he's worthwhile" was an established tag but really, I want it to become a whole genre on its own.


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